distance, July longed to assure this white man, before they parted, that she was not a rough negro. No. She was a mulatto. Even though he may see her skin to be a shade too dusky, she wished him the comfort of knowing that she was not a nigger’s pickney, but a white man’s child. So she breached that silence she had so hard determined to keep by saying, ‘Massa, you ever been Scotch Land?’
‘Scotland?’ Robert Goodwin enquired with some puzzlement. ‘No, but I’ve heard it is very beautiful. But why do you ask?’
‘Me papa be from Scotch Land,’ July was pleased to be able to inform him.
‘Your father was a Scotch man?’
‘Oh yes, he be from Scotch Land.’
‘Your father was a white man?’
‘Oh yes. Me be a mulatto, not a negro.’
‘A mulatto?’
‘Yes, a mulatto. You must not think me a nigger, for me is a mulatto.’ July then waited to witness his esteem. She was sure it would be forthcoming. But the overseer’s expression did not exclaim joy at her salvation. Come, there were those reddening cheeks, that swelling chest and pinching lips once more. But why? July was truly bewildered.
‘Did your father know you, Miss July?’
And Tam Dewar was once more called upon to step up and take his part within July’s narration. ‘Oh yes.’ July said.
‘Was he good to you?’
‘Good to me, massa?’ July faltered, for she did not want to construct a tale of that devilish man’s goodness only for Robert Goodwin to frown it away.
‘Did he give you his name?’ the white man went on, ‘Did he see you were baptised? Were you schooled?’
July nearly threw up her arms to the heavens—she felt to scream, for this man was vexing her so. What fanciful fiction she would have to weave to please him—for surely no truth could help her win this young man’s favour. So she said, ‘Him say him would one day take me to Scotch Land. Him did say him would take me . . . one day,’ while all the while examining the young overseer’s face for distress. When he continued to merely listen and nod, she carried on, ‘Him did put me ’pon him knee and him did pinch me cheeks just so.’ And she demonstrated this pinching upon her own cheeks, pulling them wide to show her papa’s playfulness. ‘And me papa did say, “One day, me little cherish,”—for him did call me “me little cherish”—“me gon’ bring you to Scotch Land”.’
And the overseer’s face did soften a little . . . perhaps.
‘What was your father’s name?’
‘Me papa name be Mr Tam Dewar.’
‘Tam Dewar,’ the overseer repeated, ‘I know that name. Was he not the overseer at Amity once upon a time?’
‘Yes,’ July said. ‘Him was a fine overseer. Him be a kind-kind massa to all.’
‘Was Tam Dewar married to your mother, Miss July?’
What sort of fool-fool question was this? Tell me, reader, did you ever, up to now, hear of an overseer upon a sugar plantation thinking to marry a slave he has befouled? A senseless liar would July be proved if she answered him, ‘Yes’. And a ‘No’ would surely see this man turn from her.
July all at once gave up the whole notion of charming this white man, for there was too much work to do within it. And what a foolish endeavour it was. She needed no glass to tell her that she was too dark and lowly a house servant for a man so fine English as Robert Goodwin to find beauty within her. So although July did not, with honesty, answer that her papa just bent her mama over several times to do his business, but that her mama did later kill him for it, there was some nimble truth-tripping within what she actually said. ‘Him pass on, massa. Jus’ as me papa was to take me mama, them both dead in the riots.’ Then, as the words left July’s mouth, she lifted her hands to her eyes. To stop her tears from flowing? No. This was just fancy feigning.
Now believing her to be crying, Robert Goodwin was suddenly concerned. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Have I upset you?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me,’ he demanded. Then, within a brief moment, he placed his hand tenderly upon July’s arm. And that touch did tingle upon her skin so.
Of course July fell against him as he helped her down from the cart, for she tripped her foot upon the board—it is easily done from a pony